How We Need Another Soul To Cling To
by Jules3033
Summary: "Darkness. That's all that the highly trained S.H.E.I.L.D. agent Black Widow has seen for the past 40 days." Natasha is captured and held captive for 50 days. She's physically been through worse, but keeping hope was tough when there's no visible light at the end of the tunnel. Hurt/Comfort is my addiction and Clintasha is my OTP Title is a Sylvia Path quote.
1. Chapter 1

_So here I am, supposed to be studying for a midterms and instead I'm thinking about a storyline for a fic and then typing it on my phone. Whatever. If I fail I fail. I could always join the circus ;) I have no idea where this is going so be kind._

_Warnings: well for this chapter I guess it's a bit dark and scary and mentions suicide but no one is committing but still, rated T for now__  
Clintasha 3_  
**-**

**-40 Days Missing, Captivity-**

_**DARKNESS**_

That's all that the highly trained S.H.E.I.L.D. agent Black Widow has seen for the past 40 days. Not that she was aware of that; she had lost sense of time awhile ago. She seemed to be locked in a cellar of some kind, damp and cold. There was nothing in the approximately 12'x12' room except the floor and a small toilet. No window, no cot, no way out except a locked door with multiple armed guards. The concrete floor and walls were sandy and damp. Once a day someone opened the heavy door and set a slice of bread, some water and a piece of fruit on the ground while 3 others had their guns trained on her unwaveringly. Other than to eat or being dragged up and tied to a chair she spent most of her time sitting silently in the corner

Her once curly, vibrant hair sat in tangles on her head, dirtier than she'd like to admit, her mission cat suit in tatters.

At first she fought them, but not once did she even get close to half way out. There were so many locked doors, tight halls and trained guards. No matter how many guards she took out they overpowered her easily. The air in the cell was thick, definitely drugged with something to keep her weak. She took a small comfort and taking down a serious amount of hostiles.

Throughout the 40 days alone in the dark, they wasted a decent amount of time attempting to torture information out of her, but got nothing. She was good at torture. Silent and angry, but unlike her partner, good at not pissing off her captors. The cuts and bruises were numbed but still there, even her enhanced body too weak to heal its injuries. She found a small mercy in the fact no one seemed to have the nerve to approach her sexually. Natasha didn't want to admit it, but she was getting weaker. Malnutrition was taking over.

Today, she decided she was going to take control. She wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of watching her die in pain. She wasn't even quite sure why she was letting them keep her alive. She could kill herself with very little effort and no fear. Not that S.H.I.E.L.D. permitted things like that. The Black Widow was quite surprised when she learned that. Other places, especially the red room, expected and even taught spies to end their suffering when captured to protect intelligence.

She tilted the paper cup of water and watched it splash on the ground. Maybe she still had a little hope someone was coming.  
**  
-30 Days Missing, S.H.E.I.L.D. HQ-  
**  
Things were quiet today at HQ. No less hectic, no less rushed, but everyone was hushed and slightly solemn. Sure, agents died often enough, and it was depressing every time, but for an agent to be missing is slightly harder. Not knowing whether or not they are being tortured or if they are already dead is something more gut wrenching. The reality of the risk S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives take everyday becomes a heavier burden. Natasha wasn't the social type, didn't make friends easily or talk much. Something about being on the S.H.I.E.L.D. Most Wanted List at one point for her rampage as a hardened killer made conversation difficult. But everyone knew about her, and the pensive mood spread like wildfire.

After 30 days people started asking questions. "Is she dead? She has to be. But she's heavily trained. If they captured her she sure as hell wouldn't give anything up, I've seen her skill in interrogation." The whispers of people were hard to avoid, especially for Clint Barton.

Everyone left him alone, and he was ok with that. His partner was missing, and she was one of the few he talked to in the first place. After New York they were even closer if that could be possible. But now Coulson was dead, Natasha was missing and he was alone, and there was nothing he could do about it. Fury wouldn't let him join the search effort for a reason unknown to him, so he fumed alone on the roof looking down at the cars that looked like ants from his height.

She was more than just a coworker, but referring to them as a couple would result in something worse than death. He loved her and she loved him, but it was more than dating. They were partners with the ultimate trust. Their motions flowed together with deathly elegance; they could let their guard down around each other. She left her door unlocked for him, didn't tense up to his touch, and it went both ways.

30 days was a difficult number for Hawkeye to comprehend. They had been apart for longer periods of time, but he had assurance she was keeping herself safe. The day she was announced M.I.A. the other four Avengers stormed the building and made quite the racket. Well, Tony did. The others were more subtle.

Bruce left a soon as possible to go back to his lab, he wasn't one for words. He locked eyes with Clint for a moment in silent apology, knowing the bond that the two spies shared, then retreated. Nothing went unnoticed to him, not even the well concealed spark between the spy and the archer.

Thor and Cap didn't have much time to react in front of Clint, they nodded processing for a moment. This wasn't the first time The Captain had a friend M.I.A., so he kept a straight face, and Thor accidentally crunched his glass of water that he was holding, getting glass shards and water all over the table. Tony stood, rambling about satellites and funding, but when the team turned to Clint, he has gone. His chair at the conference table pushed back and the door open. He knew she was missing before they made it official.

Anger drove his movements to the roof. She was his partner, and he wasn't allowed to watch her back. The mission was announced not too long after New York. Natasha was cleared, but the psychologists weren't confident in his mental state. She left and he stayed. It wasn't that they aren't capable apart, but they are more effective together.

Hawkeye was still at his spot on the roof, refusing to mourn. Rain, sleet, wind, nothing seemed to bother him. And no one tried to disturb him. He was pushing his luck though. Sooner or later he was going to be plucked off the roof and into a mission by Fury, but for now he was allowed to be distracted.

**-20 Days Missing, S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ-**

50 days since they lost communication with The Black Widow, someone finally has the courage to approach him. Who other than the arrogant Tony Stark? In complete annoyance Clint didn't bother to turn around, but Stark chooses to ignore the hint.

"Clint, Fury is yelling for you." The entire time he worked with Tony, this would be the first time he referred to him as Clint. It was always something cleverly annoying that poked fun at his code name. He made no move to get up so the billionaire took a step closer. "Don't lose hope; if anyone would make it, it's her. I made it 3 months and then trekked through the desert with no training. She's more capable than I am."

The archer nodded and stood wordlessly, and followed him down a few flights of stairs into a hectic conference room. Papers were flying and orders were being shouted almost like they were filming a cheesy TV show. They were making a move, they had a location.

_If the time-frames clash leave it in a review, I revised that a lot! Constructive criticism and ideas (especially ideas) are highly appreciated; I'm not much of a writer. Grammar (apparently it's my weakness) and spelling too. Really I appreciate ideas and inspiration even if it's a headcannon you saw on tumblr or something, DON'T BE EMBARRASSED, HELP ME AND MY MISSING CREATIVITY OUT (P.S. compliments are nice too)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Happy Easter! Sorry for the late update, the website hasn't been working for me**

The helipad on the roof of the hub was taken over by the sound of swooshing rotors. Shouting was pretty much necessary to be heard. "Agent Barton stand down. Protocol says you stay here and you will do exactly that!" A young guy, definitely fresh out of the academy, was standing in front of a large helicopter with his arms crossed over his chest, arguing with Clint Barton. "Fuck protocol, that's my partner. It's protocol that I'm the one that's out on missions with her! This shouldn't be happening in the first place!"

He glared angrily, quite ready to kill the guy, or at least shove him off the roof. A moment later someone had a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to face none other than Nick Fury. Trench coat blowing slightly in the wind, classic don't mess with me style. "This isn't her mission anymore, it's mine. I don't care what protocol says, you stay here. If you want updates you can take your ass upstairs and get updates when the rest of the agency gets them."

No amount of arguing was going to get his point across. Before he knew it the aircraft was gone and he was walking aimlessly back inside. Their new handler wasn't Coulson, and times like this reminded him exactly that. He didn't like the guy, and probably never would. No one could ever compare to the man who dragged him off the streets and turned his life around.

**-9 Hours Later, Location Undisclosed-**

Natasha Romanoff sat against the wall, facing the door, with her knees to her chest. After refusing food for 10 days and water for 3, what little strength she had left was nearly diminished. Her throat and mouth where cut and sore from their pathetic attempts at force feeding, but it was well worth a few of the captors losing fingers. She had been tortured before, and this wasn't even the worst. She was careful never to show any expression when they came to her. But the situation seemed hopeless. Anyone else wouldn't broken by now. Solitude was the best way to drive someone insane.

Loud crashes and gunshots pulled her out of her thoughts and she struggled to stand. She pulled herself up not allowing fear or pain show through. A moment later someone bursts through the door and she recoils, incredibly out of character. The figure takes a few steps to her and she starts sinking to the ground, vision swimming. She tenses when the figure speaks in a familiar voice. Had they drugged her again? She had to be hallucinating.

"Agent Romanoff" a gruff voice announced his presence. Fury bent down and put her arm around his shoulders and pulled her up supporting her weight. At first she flinched away from the contact out of instinct, but after a moment at mental war with herself, she gave in and accepted his help. Between the injuries, dehydration, and starvation, her body disobeyed her mind's strength and her knees gave out.

Quickly he slipped one of his two handguns back into its holster, bent down, and lifted her easily. "Director-" she spoke in protest, resenting her loss of strength. He shook his head in reply and exited the room stepping over the bodies of multiple guards and glaring at any agent who stared a moment too long. The head of S.H.E.I.L.D. carried her up 5 flights of stairs before reaching the main floor of the castle like building. She cringed at the blinding sunlight that filtered through the windows, for it was an extreme contrast to her dark cell, but still the fresh air and warmth seemed like a blessing.

The ride home was a silent one on the part on The Black Widow. The typical noises were there, and that was a slight comfort. The rotors where whirring softer than your average military grade helicopter thanks to the geniuses at S.H.E.I.L.D., and the agents who were tagged for the mission were bantering a bit quieter than usual in the adjourning room. Medical staff buzzed around her unconscious figure taking vitals, setting up IV's, and working to taking care of cuts that needed stitching.

When they first boarded, she was hallucinating and attempted to fight the medics until they plunged a light sedative into her arm. She relaxed and watched them move around her until she gave into a restless medically induced sleep.

Fury paced stiffly before settling in a chair that gave him a good view of everything that went on in the aircraft. Everything was under control. He trained his attention back to the injured agent. She was far too light and cold when he lifted her off the ground.  
**  
****-Later at HQ-**

The building was a whirlwind of commotion, rumors and excited whispers floating around between the younger agents.

Meanwhile Hawkeye stood at the door of a dim room in the medical wing and took in his partner's appearance. Cyclic beeping came from a heart monitor, tubes and wires connected to monitors and IVs. Her arm rest limp in a sling, her shoulder black and blue from dislocation, and bruises and cuts a sharp contrast to her pale skin. Dark circles lined her eyes, weight loss eminent. "You going to stand at the door and stare, or come in?" Her quiet voice made him jump and immediately he claimed the chair at her side.

Even after being tortured and held captive she ignored any orders from medical staff. Natasha sat propped up on pillows, opening her eyes to stare intensely at him. A sealed bottle of painkillers sat on the side table; he knew there was no way in hell she planned on taking them. The pale green scrub top that she managed to get her hands on until she could get one of her own t-shirts hung loosely off her dangerously thin frame. God help the nurse who insisted she wear a patient gown. There was an opened book, entirely in Russian, resting on her lap despite the warnings of concussion.

To anyone else the Black Widow would appear to be in pretty good shape considering the conditions she was in less than 48 hours ago, but Clint could pick up on little things that no one else noticed. "The nerve of these people." she said with a half smile to relax his intense watch over her. "14 days without food and they all they'll give me is ice. I want fries." Her statement did nothing to relax his concerned stare. "They told you Nat, they told me too. They don't want to shock your system." They didn't exactly tell him, but he overheard doctors talking. He was good at blending in unnoticed. He heard everything, and not in the sugarcoated version they told families or friends. He heard the truth and the statistics and what they really thought. But that wasn't the reason her words had no affect on his nerves. It was the way she delivered to sentence. He knew her quirks and her mood without her telling him. The way she crossed her legs at the ankles gave away that she was too cold, the way she blinked a second too long gave away her pain level, and the way her eyes darted to the door or window gave away that she was on edge. He knew her too well.

He stood, grabbed a blanket from a closet, unfolded it, and set it on her lap. In a swift movement he took the book and placed it out of reach before she could grab it back. "You need to relax, this isn't a patch it up and go back to training." She nodded a little, too tired to protest, and moved to one side of the undersized bed. Clint sat next to her, and moment later the Russian had her head on his shoulder and gave into rest. "Don't leave" she mumbled almost inaudibly.

"Never." Was the one word reply she received, and for the first time in 61 days she could let her guard down.

The first hour that everyone spends dreamless, was time only time Natasha Romanoff was completely still. Clint took that time that she was leaned against him to try and process the situation. The past few days were too much activity. The only noise in the room is the repetitive beep of a heart monitor, and her typically silent breathing wheezed heavily.

Other than the aim that yielded his codename, Hawkeye had a handful of other well developed talents. One was analyzing a situation or person visually, picking up on things other people typically missed.

As partners they went on missions a lot, dealt with fights and resulting injuries. Physically Clint had seen his partner in worse shape, but something about the multiple injuries told him that he would have to work a long time to get her to work through them. The countless bruises and cuts give away the torture she is trained for. She's not immune to pain, but she sure as hell won't give them an ounce of satisfaction. Showing an outward reaction won't make the pain any less.

Arm completely immobilized to her side in a sling, casted ankle, moderate concussion, 3 cracked ribs, black eye, split lip and a few nearly healed broken toes. All signs of someone with anger management who really need information from a spy who can endure torture. But that's not what worries everyone about her condition. Pneumonia from water torture and cold weather mixed with weakened immune system and starvation is cause for concern.

The thing that stood out most as she slept was the weight she had lost in captivity. Her already small frame rested what felt like weightlessly against him, and for the first time in the in the 61 days she was gone he let himself relax just a little.

**-**

Not like he ever got to relax for long. Suddenly the form if his arms fought frightfully and shouted in Russian. "Natasha!" He received no response and tried again, holding her bandaged wrists, bruised and raw from being bound, firm enough to prevent further injury but light enough not to inflict more pain. "Natasha!" he tried again to no avail. "Nat, wake up!"

Slowly her resistance against his grip decreased and he let go. She looked around shakily trying to catch breath back in her weakened lungs. The two sat in silence. Unable to think of something to say Clint stood beside the redhead watching her breathe.

The sound of her voice surprised him. "Could you find water and" she coughed lightly "Jell-O maybe?" He nodded and stood to fill a cup at the sink. When she reached up to accept it with a shaky hand he gently pushed it down and held it for her. She glared daggers at the bendy straw and then up at him. "I'm not fucking invalid Barton." He shrugs slightly and places it on the counter. "When you spill it don't expect me to clean it up."

On the way out to find the requested Jell-O he glanced back over his shoulder, watching her sink back into the pillows. He bit his lip in worry, feeling completely useless and slightly guilty. Usually injuries, even the major ones, were alright in a week or two and they at least appeared to bounce back mentally pretty quickly. But this would mean actual recovery time, something neither of them were very good at. They left the medical wing long before they were supposed to, and ignored suggestions from medical staff.

When he later returned with a blue Jell-O cup Natasha looked up from her book and smiled. He was thanking The Lord her mood was lifted "Who'd you steal it from?"

Clint laughed as she pulled off the lid and jabbed a spoon through the center "Hill, it was in her fridge." She nodded in thanks and placed the half empty container onto the table and pushed herself up to sit up. She motioned to the crutches across the room, "wanna help me up?" He looked at her carefully. "Not today Nat, you just got back and-" he was cut off by her deadly glare but continued, "and you were gone 61 days and you've been back for two. You'll get back into it"

She opened her mouth to argue back but closed it when she saw someone tap awkwardly on the glass before pushing it open.


End file.
